When Trying Isn't Enough
by ann no aku
Summary: There is a window connecting universes, and the Doctor finds it. He travels to Rose, only to discover that he is too late. AU


**When Trying Isn't Enough**

ann no aku

**Plot: **There is a window connecting universes, and the Doctor finds it. He travels to Rose, only to discover that he is too late. AU

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Doctor Who.

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After years of giving up, abandonment, he found it, hidden deep within space—a pocket of condensed energy with nowhere to go. It was small, the size of a one room flat, if that, and would have gone unnoticed if the Doctor had remembered to tell the TARDIS to quit looking, to quit hoping.

His hearts swelled in his chest, threatening to burst at the sliver of hope the pocket was promising. Franticly, the Doctor pulled out his specs, studying the impossible phenomenon. It was a wormhole between universes, like some large underground that stretched to unknown reaches. It was a gigantic centipede, its legs the way to other universes.

How long had it been there? Could he, the Doctor, go back in time, say ten years, and still discover it? He locked the coordinates into his ship and spun wildly through time, reappearing seconds later to endless, empty space.

The pocket wasn't there, nowhere to be found, not so much as a trace of highly condensed energy. Nothing. He swore, he cursed, tore madly at his hair. He knew, in that moment, that it was a random anomaly, popping up in different locations all over the universe, never in the same spot twice. It was a bolt of lightening in the vastness of space. And he knew that he would never find it again.

But the Doctor had to try.

It had been ten or twenty years since they had last said goodbye. (Or was it forty? Fifty?) The Doctor had long since quit counting, forcing the last memory of her out of his mind. He was a Time Lord. Just because he could travel to the past didn't mean he had to live in it.

Yet now that he had the opportunity, now that he had the chance—he had to try. The Doctor _had_ to say the words time had stolen from him, even if it were a half dozen decades later.

Without thinking, without so much as batting an eyelash, the Doctor plunged deep into the vortex, locating familiar energy signatures of Pete's universe and rode the wave.

From his past experiences on Earth, the Doctor could only compare the journey to a water slide—the energy propelling him through the snaky tube. It was quick, but not fast enough for a millennia old Lord of Time, searching tirelessly at the back of his mind for the girl whom had taught him how to live again.

He came out somewhere between this universe's version of Kizup'tol and one of its three orbiting moons. Unfazed, he set the destination for Earth, telling himself he'd just go back a few years once safely in England. After a few more torturous minutes, the TARDIS materialized just outside of London, a very blimp-filled-sky London.

It had worked. All he had to do was activate the time engine and go to Rose, tell her how he felt, and whisk her away for a lifetime of adventures. It was simple, really, an easy plan, and one that shouldn't go wrong. One that should because it _was_ that simple.

Perhaps it was the trip through the wormhole, the pocket with its many legs, or maybe it was this universe, something about it reacting badly with his TARDIS. But whatever the reason was, the Doctor couldn't go back. He was stuck in this year, this day, this second, with no way to travel back, if even for a nanosecond.

Still, he couldn't give up, not now, not when he had managed his way back to her and had come so far. And so he went to Pete's mansion, surprised to find it so busy, as if a party were being thrown.

He didn't care. They'd understand; they always did. The Doctor strolled up to the entrance, stepping over the threshold without so much as knocking. It was a somber, fancy dress party. He supposed it was Jackie's fiftieth, only she would be so grieved about turning fifty.

The Doctor walked around, searching for a familiar face. No one spoke to him, questioned who he was or why he was there. But he was too occupied over finding Rose to worry, to wonder why no one was smiling, why there wasn't even a crumb of birthday cake in sight. He caught snippets of conversations as he passed room through room before reaching the parlor.

"-so young-"

"-no children-"

"-pined away for years-"

The pain behind their words did nothing to prepare the Doctor for the sight before him. There was a large portrait of Rose surrounded by dozens of bouquets and arrangements, all of the same flower bearing her name. Next to her picture was a long, sleek casket in a deep blue—TARDIS blue—open to reveal the occupant. With a stab in both hearts, he knew. He knew it was Rose.

For what felt like an eternity, the Doctor stayed rooted to the spot, debating if he should pay his respects. While he fought with himself, tried to will the courage to come, a shadow crossed over him.

"So you finally made it, Doctor," Mickey greeted, his tone cold.

He couldn't speak, couldn't respond. Instead, he nodded, swallowing back the bile that had risen to his throat, his hands shoved deep within his pockets. He was surprised to see that Mickey looked livid, not mournful like everyone else. And, while he hated to admit it, time had been kind to the idiot. Mickey didn't look more than ten years older than when they had last met. Had it only been that long, then? It had felt like an eternity to him.

"And not a moment too soon," he continued, his dead eyes flickering over to the casket for the briefest of seconds.

"I-I tried," the Doctor choked.

"Yeah, well, this time trying wasn't enough, was it? Why don't you go back in your time machine and come back ten years ago, Doctor?" he sneered, not at all looking like himself.

"I can't. I tried, but . . .I-I can't." The Doctor exhaled deeply, barely able to breathe. "What happened to her?"

"She died," Mickey replied, stating the obvious much to the Doctor's annoyance. "Waiting for you," he finished after a short pause and deep intake of breath. "The docs here can't explain it—one day, she just . . .stopped." Mickey then stared at the Doctor hard, expelling years of hatred and loathing. "And it's your fault."

"I told her it was impossible, Mickey. Th-That we'd never," he swallowed again, running his hands wildly through his hair like a mad man.

"Yet here you are. Funny, that."

"There was a random pocket of energy," the Doctor began, desperate for Mickey to believe him.

"I don't want to hear your excuses, Doctor," he cut him off. "SHE'S DEAD!" he bellowed angrily, gaining the attention of everyone in the room. The Doctor could just make out Pete and Jackie Tyler in the crowd, huddled with two young, grief-stricken boys. "Rose died waiting for you, trusting you'd find a way back to her! She wasted away into nothing! LOOK AT HER!" Mickey grabbed the Doctor violently by the forearm, jerking him to the casket. "Do you even recognize her, Doctor? Does she look anything like you remember?"

Her corpse was thin, and her skin stretched and waxy over her frail bones. He could see every vein, every capillary. It took everything the Doctor possessed not to vomit on the spot.

"This is what you do, Doctor. This is your legacy."

He stared, willing the sight before him to change with all his might. Silent tears streamed down his face, and he did nothing to wipe them away. He couldn't; he couldn't move. A doctor could heal, a doctor could protect and care, but a doctor couldn't bring back the dead.

Nothing could.

"Why'd you even bother to come back?" demanded Mickey, his voice low with fury.

The Doctor broke his gaze away from Rose, looking at Mickey as though he had never seen him before. Gulping hard, he answered in a voice he didn't recognize. "To tell her that I love her."

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End file.
